


Five Times Varric Tethras Met Divine Victoria (and one time he didn’t)

by enigmaticagentscully



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra as Divine, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticagentscully/pseuds/enigmaticagentscully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether it is a lifetime together or a lifetime apart he is never quite sure, but it is the only one they have.</p><p>(this fic that took me way too long is dedicated to my own little holy trinity of Cassandra/Varric fic writers: Vehlr, Orillia and Ruffles <3 Thanks for all the wonderful fics this May guys!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Month Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vehlr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/gifts), [OrilliaOrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrilliaOrange/gifts), [Satine86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine86/gifts).



The crossroads nominally mark the end of the path through the mountains and the beginning of the plains, but in reality they are still miles from civilisation here. Still, there is something obviously symbolic about crossroads, Varric thinks, so it is no coincidence that this is where their small party stops.

They have been riding since dawn, and though the sun is not yet at its full height, it promises to be a beautiful day. The horses whicker and stamp impatiently, eager to continue to the more even ground of the road ahead.  The Inquisitor and the others stand a tactful distance away, talking quietly amongst themselves. They have already said their goodbyes.

Varric has rehearsed this scene a thousand times in his head since they heard the news, though it’d take a lot to make him admit it. He has always been a great believer in getting the words right, and now they have deserted him.

Cassandra can hardly look him in the eye it seems, and so they stand side by side instead, looking out at the road ahead, the awkward silence a strange echo of the antipathy they once shared. When he finally speaks, it is not the romantic speech he pictured, but the question he would ask of any friend who faced what she did today.

“What can I do to make this easier?” he says. “Anything you need, it’s yours.”

Cassandra hesitates for a moment. He is aware of even that; all the words on the tip of her tongue that she swallows before they escape, the uncertain tremble of her hands balled into fists. It is as if her impending absence has magnified her presence in the moment – he is stuck by the _realness_ of her standing beside him, body and soul and beating heart.

“Tell me this is the right thing to do,” she says quietly. “Tell me it doesn’t matter, that I’m not giving anything up. Tell me that what we had was just one of those...those fleeting things that happen in a time of war.”

She turns to him then, every raw feeling written in the tightness around her eyes, the set of her jaw. She is an open book to him, now more than ever.

“Tell me that you won’t miss me when I’m gone,” she says. “Tell me that I won’t miss _you_.”

“I can’t,” says Varric. “I’m sorry.”

Cassandra gives him a small, sad smile. “And you used to be such a good liar.”

“You’re a terrible influence on me.” His voice sounds diminished even to his own ears, vanishingly small in the great emptiness of the landscape before them.

There is a long silence, and the air itself feels heavy with the weight of all that has happened to get them here to this time, to this place. Their future stretches out before them, and in this moment Varric finds he can see it as easily as he can see their past. They have saved the world, and this is their reward. The Maker has a cruel sense of humour, sometimes.

 “I’d kiss you,” he says, because this is a day for honesty if ever there was one, “but I’m not sure I’d ever stop.”

“I know,” says Cassandra.

He takes her hand instead and brushes his lips softly against her fingers.

“I’ll see you again soon, Seeker.”

“I am not a Seeker any longer, Varric,” she says. “When you see me again, I won’t even be Cassandra.”

Varric just smiles, because what else can he do? He has had a lifetime of partings with slammed doors and curses, and horrible frosty silence. He will leave her with a smile and a promise, and nothing less.

“I know who you are Seeker,” he says. “I always have.”

He watches the horses until they are out of sight, and then returns to Skyhold with the Inquisitor and the others. And because he is himself, he gets cheerfully drunk in the tavern with Bull and his Chargers, and they gleefully speculate about what havoc Cassandra’s temper will wreak on the stuffy ceremonies of Val Royeaux.

And the next day he nurses a hangover but writes a few letters and gets caught up on the paperwork he’s put off due to the distractions of the past few weeks.

And the day after that he begins work on the next chapter of _Swords and Shields_ , because he made a promise, and when the new Divine asks you to do something, you damn well get it done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really more of a prologue, and therefore much shorter than all the others. Come back tomorrow for chapter 2, and every day after that until we're done :)


	2. One Year After

The Grand Cathedral more than deserves its name, Varric decides. Even in Val Royeaux, where the buildings themselves are designed to outdo their neighbours in size and opulence, it dominates this quarter of the city.

The Orlesian summer is in full swing and the busy streets of Val Royeaux are sweltering in the sticky heat. Nobles and tradesmen alike carry fans and parasols, summer masks made of flimsy paper curl in the sun and stain the wearers’ faces with dye as the sweat soaks through. The richer citizens have already retreated to their chateaus in the cooler parts of the country, but life goes on and the city is still an anthill of activity. The plaza in front of the cathedral is bustling with devout pilgrims and curious tourists and people trying to make money off all of them. Chantry sisters drift through the crowds, sweating under their heavy robes, and pompously dressed guards stand yawning in the scant patches of shade under the great stone pillars.

Going in through the huge ornate front doors of the Cathedral is out of the question of course, but Varric has a rogue’s instincts for getting into places, and it doesn’t take him long to follow a couple of elven servants through a side door in the western wall. Once inside, the guards he sees barely pay him any mind. With so many people coming and going, a brisk stride and the right attitude can get you a long way in infiltration. The occasional locked door gives him little trouble. Really, it’s all good practice.

Besides, all this sneaking around helps him take his mind off what it is he’s doing.

The Grand Cathedral is a sanctuary in weather like this, and it’s a wonderful relief to have finally escaped the merciless sun. The vaulted stone walls and marble floors keep the inside deliciously cool, although the initial relief wears off slightly after he walks through seemingly endless corridors for a while, the architecture transitioning oh-so-subtly from the shabbier working parts of the place to the grander rooms. The people he passes too start to have the more ethereal, placid look of those who have never had to scrub a floor or peel a potato. He must be getting close.

When he reaches it, the vast main nave is an imposing sight. Hundreds of yards long, it is illuminated only by the sunlight scattering rainbows of colour through the high stained glass windows, and the flickering of thousands of candles, dribbling an endless trail of red wax onto the marble. Varric, who always finds himself thinking about things like this, wonders whose job it is to keep them all lit, and to clean up the wax. Probably some elven servant whose name no-one even bothers to remember.

The place reeks of incense and his every footstep echoes on the floor as he walks, no matter how much care he takes. Towering statues of Andraste peer down at him, blank faced, and the familiar feeling of unease that always creeps up on him in these places surfaces. The vague feeling of unworthiness, that he is fundamentally not supposed to be here.

Of course, right now, he _isn’t_ supposed to be here. The Grand Cathedral is as much a political institution as a religious one, and only opens to the general unwashed masses once a week, when a public service is held. Even that is a fairly new thing – it used to be only for those nobles and wealthy merchants who had a high enough social standing and deep enough pockets. These days you could easily see a Comte receiving Andraste’s blessing side by side with an errand boy from the streets.

It is not a change that everyone approves of.

Varric is startled from his thoughts by a clatter of shoes on the marble, and he stands very still in the shadow of a statue as he observes the group moving down the side of the nave through the pews; a flurry of priests and a couple of women in civilian clothes, most of whom are holding stacks of paper and all of whom look harried.

And in the middle of them is Divine Victoria in full regalia, striding along with a face like a stormcloud, robes billowing behind her.

He wasn’t expecting it to be so easy, so _sudden._ Varric’s heart clenches in his chest as he hears her voice cutting through the soft tranquillity of the cathedral as the group approaches.

“If the Marquis thinks so highly of them, he should move to Tevinter himself. What those elves do or do not believe is none of our concern, they went to the Qun of their own free will, in fact I should say that they _escaped_ of their own free will, and whatever my opinion of that I will _not_ condone slavery under the pretext of religious—”

“Sister Nightingale says she can have her contacts in the Ben-Hassrath look into it,” says one of the figures scurrying alongside her, clearly hoping to head off a long rant.

“Do so,” says the Divine. “I will not have the name of Andraste used as a justification for Tevinter abuses.”

Most of the women peel off and hurry away, leaving only two in the robes of Chantry mothers keeping pace alongside her. They are almost upon him now and Varric has the sudden mad urge to let them pass by, to leave and go far away back to his life and never return. Instead he steps out of the shadows in front of them.

“You know your Holiness,” he says, “considering you’re one of the most famous people in Thedas, you’re surprisingly hard to track down.”

It’s not exactly a brilliant opening line, but he couldn’t think of anything witty on the spot, and it’s enough to make the three women stop in their tracks, perhaps only out of shock at seeing an outsider here.

Cassandra looks rooted to the spot. _“Varric?”_

“Hey Seeker,” he says, and grins widely. “Nice hat.”

“What...” Her eyes are wide and the two women flanking her are clearly confused at her shocked reaction, regardless of how weird it is for a dwarf to flag down the Divine in the Grand Cathedral in the middle of the afternoon.

“What are you _doing_ here?” she says.

“Well, I was in the area, and I thought I’d drop in.”

It’s a damned lie, and she knows it, and Varric doesn’t care. Her eyes have not moved from his face and he finds he can’t look away either, hungrily taking in the woman he has only seen in his memories for over a year.

One of the priests, an elderly woman, shifts nervously, sensing the atmosphere but not understanding. “Most Holy, should I...should I call the guards?”

“No,” says Cassandra slowly, without taking her eyes off Varric. “Though you might speak to them later about their lax security. This man is...an old friend. One who apparently doesn’t understand the concept of making an appointment.”

That stings a little, but Varric just winks at the priest, who blushes slightly.

“I like to make an entrance,” he says smoothly.

“Oh!” cries the other priest suddenly. “You’re Varric Tethras! I’ve read all your—”

The older priest silences her with a glare, and now both the women have pink faces. Maker balls, since when did he have such an effect on the priesthood? Pity it doesn’t seem to extend to the Most Holy herself, who is now regarding him with a rather stern expression.

“Please excuse us Revered Mother Felicity, Mother Anna,” she says. “It seems I find myself otherwise engaged for the rest of the day. Would you please ask Sister Leliana to postpone my meeting with the Marquis? It will do him good to have some time to cool off, anyway.”

The two priests make vague deferential gestures and hurry off, glancing curiously behind them as they disappear. Cassandra jerks her head for Varric to follow, and he does so, not quite keeping in step beside her as she heads out of the nave and into the myriad of chambers and corridors beyond. She doesn’t say a word. For a moment he’s almost afraid that she intends to just see him right out of the place and ejected into the plaza again, but their route takes them up a winding stone staircase into what could only be the living quarters for those that reside there. A guard at the end of one corridor stiffens as they approach and awkwardly salutes, clearing not expecting anyone at this time of day. Cassandra barely gives him a second glance, and continues past through two other doors until she reaches one with a very serious looking lock. A key is produced from somewhere inside her robes and they enter into what could only be the Divine’s private chambers.

They’re nice. Comfortable. Plain. There’s a couch, some chairs by the fireplace – empty of logs on a day like this, of course – and a few bookshelves ranging around the walls. A tapestry of Andraste on the wall. A door that must lead to a bedroom, because there’s no bed that Varric can see from where he’s standing. After the opulence of the rest of the cathedral it’s a little underwhelming.

As soon as Cassandra closes the door behind them, however, he can see her visibly relax. She immediately pulls off her hat and flowing robes, tossing them unceremoniously onto a chair. She is wearing a simple cotton shirt and trousers underneath and she looks...ah, how he could he even begin to describe it? She looks like _herself_ again. Right down to the irritable scowl on her face.

“That,” she says, “was an extremely foolhardy thing to do, Varric. Do you have any idea how paranoid they are about security here, given what happened to the last Divine?”

Her hair is still a little mussed from being under the hat, and Varric has the very strong urge to run his fingers through it. It’s probably blasphemy even to think of things like that.

“Well you haven’t replied to my last few letters, Seeker,” he says casually. “So I figured I’d try the direct approach.”

“By breaking into the Grand Cathedral?”

“I didn’t so much break in as just walk in,” says Varric. “Though I wouldn’t worry about security; this place is a labyrinth, I doubt any would-be assassins could find you before they starved to death first.”

“You seem to have managed it with disquieting ease.”

“I’m good with locks,” says Varric. He sighs a little. “Can I ask you a question, Most Holy?”

“There is no need to be flippant, Varric. And I can’t stop you from doing whatever you please, it seems.”

“Are you at all happy to see me?”

There is a beat of silence and Cassandra’s face softens. “Of course I am,” she says quietly.

“I really didn’t intend to mess up your day.”

“You didn’t. Quite the opposite. I believe the world can spare me for at least a few hours to catch up with...” The end of the sentence catches slightly and Varric finishes it for her, echoing her earlier words.

“An old friend?”

She nods. “I am sorry I haven’t been able to write as often as I should. Please don’t think I don’t read your letters, because I do. They are always a welcome comfort. I just...” She rubs her temples wearily. “I have so little time. You can’t imagine.”

“I have a pretty good imagination. But I get your point.”

“I promise I will try to reply to your letters from now on,” says Cassandra. “Maker knows I would be worried too, if I did not hear from you.”

Since she has apparently seen through him the moment he appeared, Varric doesn’t bother to try and deny his concern. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I don’t want to make you feel obliged to write or anything. I just wanted to be sure you were doing okay. About time I visited a few old friends anyway; I’ll stop off to see the Inquisitor on the way back to Kirkwall too.”

“You must give her my regards when you do.”

“Of course.”

“It _is_ good to see you,” says Cassandra. She gestures vaguely at the couch, clearly unused to playing host. “Please do sit down.” Varric obeys, grateful to take the weight off his feet.

“Would you like a drink?” says Cassandra.

“Maker _yes_ ,” says Varric. “Are you allowed alcohol in here?”

Cassandra smiles. “I’m not a prisoner, Varric,” she replies, and opens a small wooden cupboard to retrieve a decanter of some dark liquid and a couple of glasses. He relaxes slightly; the awkward part of their meeting appears to be over, and he is evidently no longer in any danger of being summarily thrown out of the city.

Casting around for a relatively safe topic of conversation, Varric gestures to the hat. “So...is there some kind of reinforcement in that thing that makes it stay upright? Wooden struts or something?”

“I suppose so,” says Cassandra, glancing back before busying herself with the glasses again.

“You know, you could probably keep stuff in there for emergencies, if you needed to. A couple of daggers, a small bottle of brandy...”

Cassandra lets out a snort of laughter, and turns back to him. “What possible emergency are you imagining that could be solved by two daggers and a bottle of brandy?”

Varric grins back. “You’d be amazed. That was just an example though. I’m just saying that surely the hat must have some practical use.”

“Its practical use is marking me as the Divine,” says Cassandra, passing him a glass and perching carefully on the other end of the couch, as far away as it was possible to be while still technically sitting on the same piece of furniture. “There are some who I doubt would believe it otherwise.”

“Trouble in Chantry central then?” says Varric. “Who would have thought it, eh? And these religious types are usually so tolerant and accepting.”

Cassandra gives him a look. “It is nothing I cannot handle,” she says. “Not everyone is very receptive to change. I expected as much when I became Divine.”

He remembers. He can still recall all the things she wanted to do, all the problems of the world she wanted to solve. It was why she took the Sunburst Throne when it was offered to her, because she would trust no-one but herself to rebuild the Chantry into a thing worth saving. He remembers the passion in her voice as she spoke of the ideals of Andraste, the failings of those who had let her message be lost in the face of pride and stubborn tradition, all the things they used to talk about long into the night as they lay in each other’s arms...

Varric takes a swig of his wine to distract himself from that train of thought, and then places the glass carefully on a small table nearby. It’s good stuff, but he really wants a clear head right now.

“I did hear you’ve been ruffling some feathers,” he says. “I’m not surprised you’re worried about security. Are you sure you can trust the people around you? Some of the things...you’ve been controversial, to say the least. I think the clerics were expecting you to be a more conventional choice.”

“Then they didn’t know me well enough,” says Cassandra. “And I am not _worried_ about security; I am simply exercising reasonable caution. There have been some...threats. Expected but still unwelcome.”

 “But you’ve got people you can trust here, right? In your last letter you did say...”

“Oh yes,” says Cassandra. “Those who work with me every day can be trusted.” She smiles a little. “I doubt Leliana would allow anyone who had not proven themselves within ten feet of me.”

“So you’ve built up a team, just like in the good old days?” says Varric.

“I...yes, I suppose.” Cassandra hesitates, and takes a sip of wine. The movement of her throat as she swallows is oddly hypnotising, and Varric has to make an effort to drag his eyes away from the bared skin of her neck. “They are good people,” she says, the merest hint of resignation in her voice. “They are all very kind, and respectful.”

It’s not hard to guess at the reason for her reticence. “But you can’t exactly go into the tavern at the end of the day for a drink and a game of Wicked Grace?” Varric says.

“The Chantry is not known for its drinking and gambling,” says Cassandra drily, “but yes, you get my gist.” She sips her wine again, almost as a nervous reflex, and moistens her lips with her tongue. Varric wonders if the Maker is deliberately torturing him.

“I miss the companionship of those around me from the early days of the Inquisition,” says Cassandra. “Being one of a group, not above the others. I...I miss them a great deal.”

The implication hangs in the air unspoken, and the atmosphere is suddenly tense again.

“I miss them too,” says Varric, not looking her in the eye. He can’t. Maker, but he should never have come here, should never have given in to his desire to see her again. She seems so far away and yet she is so close he could reach out and touch her, and he _wants_ to, so badly it makes his hands tremble and his chest ache. He feels as if he’s on the precipice of something, and with every passing moment the thought of turning back becomes more and more unbearable.

 “Cassandra, I think you should ask me to leave,” he says quietly, still looking at the room rather than at her.

She doesn’t reply, and he is forced to meet her eyes again. The look on her face is nothing he could ever put into words.

“You...want to leave?” she asks.

“No.”

He doesn’t know who moves first, but they fall into the kiss with a kind of frantic relief, lips pressing fiercely together, hands grasping at clothes, hair, skin. Cassandra’s empty glass drops from her hand onto the rug and rolls unheeded across the floor. Varric pulls her into his arms, desperate to be closer to her, to hold her again after so long, Maker it has been _so long_...

Cassandra drags him down by the edge of his shirt until he is all but lying on top of her, the two of them sinking entwined into the velvet of the couch. He can hear her breath quickening as he trails kisses down her neck, across her collarbone. Her fingers curl tightly into the hair at the nape of his neck as his hands travel the length of her body.

“I’m sure this has to be some kind of a sin,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up the inside of her thigh.

“I don’t care,” she breathes. “I don’t care. _Varric_...” Her words trail off into a soft moan as his hand moves higher, and they are both lost, beyond reason or consequence.

 

* * *

 

The vibrant heat of the day shifts into the softer velvety heat of night, and the lighted windows of Val Royeaux burn below uncountable stars. Varric and Cassandra lie together in the Divine’s bed, tangled around each other and sticky with sweat. Even the thin cotton sheets have been thrown off onto the floor, but neither suggests moving from their embrace.

Varric feels sleepy and sated and completely, utterly content. It is the opposite of the feeling he had earlier under the vast vaulted hall of the Grand Cathedral, and it hardly seems possible he is still technically in the same building. This...this is where he is supposed to be.

His fingers trail across her skin, tracing the warm, familiar contours of her body.

“You know, I thought you couldn’t possibly be as beautiful as I remembered,” he says softly, breaking the peaceful silence. “And then I saw you again...”

“Even with the hat?” says Cassandra.

“Even with the hat.”

She sighs contentedly and shifts against him, making herself more comfortable. “Maker, I’d almost forgotten how wonderful this feels,” she says.

“I hadn’t,” murmurs Varric. “I remember every day. Every single damn day.”

It was thoughtless to say it aloud, and he immediately regrets it. Cassandra tenses in his arms.

 “Varric...”

“Sorry.” He pulls away just enough to kiss her forehead gently. “I’m sorry. Let’s not think about that right now. Let’s just be here now, together.”

Cassandra makes a soft noise of assent, and buries her head against Varric’s chest. After a while he can feel her trying not to cry, and hates himself for it.

 

* * *

 

When he awakes the next morning she is already gone, which he expected, but she returns quickly, which he almost did not. He is on the point of leaving her a note when she enters her rooms again, dressed in full Divine regalia.

Their conversation is frank, calm and affectionate, but an invisible curtain has been drawn between them again, and they do not allow themselves to touch even briefly in their goodbyes. He sees himself out in the end; she is a busy woman after all.

Divine Victoria is the Maker’s servant now, his Most Holy, his mouthpiece to the world. Varric knows this, is prouder than he can say for all she has become, all she has achieved, but right now he would fight the Maker himself to have just one more day with Cassandra Pentaghast.

It’s a petty, overblown, childishly romantic sentiment, so he doesn’t voice it.

He can’t stay longer because this is the Grand Cathedral, and this is Val Royeaux, and this is _Orlais,_ and despite the loyalty and discretion of Cassandra’s inner circle he doesn’t want to expose her to gossip. It’s the kind of thing she’s always hated.

So this time it is he that leaves her, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and a promise that he worries he cannot keep.


	3. Three Years After

He sees her again of course. He’s invited to the Exhalted Council to help determine the fate of the Inquisition, he helps the Inquisitor stave off a Qunari invasion, he pledges whatever help he can give to the search for Solas. Or whatever the bastard’s real name is.

And he sees Cassandra. From a distance, at least. He even speaks to her briefly, but always business, always with others present, and even after the Qunari threat is dealt with and the Inquisition stood down, she is still so _busy_ , and he himself is called back to Kirkwall by some crisis before he can even _think_ of trying to figure out a way to spend some time with her. Leliana hand delivers a letter to him just as he is leaving, which contains in Cassandra’s own hesitant words pretty much everything he’s been thinking. Apologies. Regrets. Longing. Ironic that even when they are so near each other they still have to communicate like this – sometimes Varric wonders if all he’ll ever have of the woman he loves now are her words. Even that is more than he deserves, he knows, but it pains him far more to think that she is suffering from their separation as well. Cassandra _does_ deserve better. She deserves to be completely happy as Divine.

Perhaps if they had never met, she would have been.

But though they can both work their asses off to try and change the world, it’s far more difficult to change themselves. So Varric accepts their reality, and he writes to her at least every week, even when she is far too busy to reply, even when really _he_ is far too busy to justify the time taken out of his day. And the world moves on, and as the Inquisition dismantles, Kirkwall rebuilds. It is a long, difficult, frustrating task, and Varric throws himself into it because the city deserves no less than everything from him, and because he will not give less to his new life than Cassandra does to hers. If they can’t be together then it has to be _worth_ it.

And now the new Kirkwall College of Magi is finally ready to be opened, and of course the Divine must be invited to such a significant occasion. Whether she agrees out of duty or because...well, Viscount Tethras isn’t going to speculate. The point is that Divine Victoria is coming back to Kirkwall.

It’s probably a terrible thing to think, but this singular fact has convinced Varric that every long day of his work as Viscount has been worthwhile.

Strangely, the people of Kirkwall seem to agree. There’s certainly an air of festivity to the city that he hasn’t felt in a long time. People line the streets, most businesses close early for the day, little stalls selling hot food and souvenirs start popping up from wherever these things come from and seem to be doing a brisk trade. Aveline might have been worrying for weeks over the difficulty of keeping the peace under such circumstances, but from Varric’s perspective the fact that Kirkwall is the first city in the Free Marches to receive the new Divine can only be a good thing, and not only from a personal standpoint. Devotees have been pouring into the city for days, and the good folk of Kirkwall have been making plenty of money from them. The inns are full to bursting, and perhaps the booming trade opportunities are partly why even the least devout citizens have come out to see the Divine arrive today, smiles on their faces.

Actually, Varric suspects a lot of the city is just thrilled to welcome a Divine who, upon her ship being attacked by extremely badly informed pirates on the Waking Sea, actually seized a sword from one of her guards and personally waded into battle. It’s the kind of story Varric couldn’t have made up himself, and by the time the ship arrives at the docks not a soul in Kirkwall hasn’t heard. The cheering when Divine Victoria steps out is near ecstatic.

Varric wonders what it must be like to have people greeting you with cheers everywhere you go. No-one ever does that for him – most of the people in Kirkwall know him too well, and he has only the respect he’s earned from his deeds, not from his title alone. Still, he tries his best to look suitably Viscount-esque as he walks forward to greet their illustrious visitor. Cassandra is in full Divine regalia, but there is no disguising the brisk stride of a born warrior, or the slight embarrassment with which she holds out her hand for him to kiss as the traditionally accepted formal greeting.

He brushes his lips briefly against the back of her hand, and can’t help the wide smile that spreads across his face when he straightens up. If he holds her hand for just a moment too long, he is sure no-one but the two of them notice.

“Welcome back to Kirkwall, Most Holy,” he says, as the crowd’s noise dies down a little. “It’s an honour to have you here in our city.”

“The honour is mine, Viscount Tethras,” says Cassandra, the warmth in her eyes betraying her formal tone. She turns to address the crowd briefly, raising her voice a little so her words carry across the docks.

“When I last saw Kirkwall, it was for all too brief a time and under the worst of circumstances. The city’s recovery after such tragedy has been remarkable, and speaks well of the strength and dedication of her people.” She pauses to let the words sink in.

“Today I come here to bless a new beginning for both mages and citizens alike, in the very place where the recent terrible war began. And yet I see no resentment or fear in the people of Kirkwall today; only hope for a better future, and the determination and devotion to make that future happen. I am more pleased than I can say to see Kirkwall again as it should be – a prosperous and truly free city. I can think of no place in Thedas that I would rather be.”

There is a cheer as she finishes speaking, on general principles. It was a decent speech, Varric thinks, and in fact he’s a little surprised at how _natural_ it sounded. Oh, he’s sure that Cassandra genuinely means every word, but public speaking has never exactly been her strong point and, short though it was, her words _must_ have been rehearsed beforehand. Still it came across as remarkably sincere, even if the citizens of Kirkwall would probably have cheered any damn thing she said by this point. Cassandra has clearly become more used to being in the public eye.

He’s proud of her. It’s a strange thought, almost an arrogant one, but there it is.

The next half hour is spent in a whirl of activity that is as remarkable for Kirkwall as it must be routine for the Divine. She is formally introduced to several important city figures in front of the crowds (including a very stiff and awkward Guard Captain, armour polished to a shine), she walks along the lines of people who have been waiting at the docks all day behind roped off sections in the hopes of receiving the Divine’s blessing, she is presented with a bunch of flowers from a little curly-haired mage girl who Varric swears was chosen for being the cutest citizen of Kirkwall.

Then she is whisked away in a carriage to the Kirkwall College of Magi, and Varric is whisked away in a similar one back to the Viscount’s palace, where he has a meeting with Aveline and one of Leliana’s people regarding security arrangements. The official opening of the college will be tomorrow, and there is much to discuss before then. The new college itself is in Hightown, in the midst of the city – talk of the Gallows being repurposed was quickly quashed. That part of their past is still too recent, too raw. There is a memorial there though, for all the lives lost in the initial uprising.

But for now Varric turns his thoughts to the future, not the past, just as he keeps trying to convince the people of Kirkwall to do. His immediate future is actually pretty much his own for the rest of the day, which has taken him some time and effort to engineer. There will be a formal banquet tomorrow, along with the opening of the college and plenty of other ceremonies and important duties to be performed. But today he has played his official part in welcoming the Divine, and is free to go home and rest.

Ha.

Varric is half tempted to go and have a few drinks in the Hanged Man, just to see if Cassandra would actually eventually come to find him there if he didn’t show up. The thought of the Divine gracing a tavern in Lowtown with her presence makes him chuckle. But in the end his desire to see her wins out above curiosity, and he strolls up to the college that evening, trying his best not to appear too nervous. There is quite the crowd outside; mainly hopeful lesser nobles angling for an audience with the Divine that would never have a chance of being granted in Val Royeaux itself. The outer gates to the courtyard don’t have a lock – symbolic of the promise to never again imprison mages in Kirkwall like criminals – but given the Divine’s visit there are some pretty serious looking guards stationed at them for the duration. They wave Varric Tethras, Vicount of Kirkwall through the gates without question, to the ill-concealed muttering of the haughtily dressed crowd, and he is met at the college doors by a smiling Leliana who tells him that he is expected.

He waits in Cassandra’s rooms, which are fairly modest considering her status. Her letter telling him of her impending visit had mentioned that she had been offered the First Enchanter’s rooms to stay in while she was here, and had point blank refused. She may be used to people rolling out the red carpet for her by now, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it.

When Cassandra finally enters, she has already changed out of the hated formal robes into more comfortable clothing, and the absence of the infamous hat means Varric notices something at once that he could not have done when greeting her earlier.

“You grew out your hair,” he says, speaking aloud more out of surprise than anything.

Cassandra closes the door behind her and regards him, eyebrows raised. “Your powers of observation are as sharp as ever, I see.”

“It looks good.”

She smiles and his heart skips in his chest, just like in all those stupid cliché romance novels. He wonders if she’s ever really known the effect she can have on him, though Maker knows he’s told her more than once.

He strolls over to her and reaches up almost involuntarily to touch the hair that now tumbles in dark waves to just below her shoulders. It makes her seem softer somehow, and his hand drifts up to catch the firm line of her jaw as if to reassure himself that she is still in all other ways as he remembers.

He pulls her down a little to give her a brief chaste kiss, on the lips this time. It feels as natural as breathing.

“Welcome to Kirkwall,” he says, when they break apart.

“You said that already.”

He shrugs. “It bears repeating. The city is very happy to have you back.”

Cassandra’s smile widens. “And I am very happy to see the city again.”

Distracted both by the loveliness of her smile and the sheer strangeness of having her here with him once again, Varric finds himself almost at a loss for what to say next. In the end it’s the realisation of how different things were the _last_ time the two of them were alone in a room in Kirkwall that prompts his next comment.

“So...that little speech of yours,” he says. “The last time you were here was under the ‘worst of circumstances’, was it?” He presses a hand to his heart, a tad melodramatically. “I’m hurt, Seeker. And here I thought that our first encounter would be a treasured memory.”

“Ass. You can hardly blame me for not getting the best impression of the place. It was almost in ruins and my meeting with you was most unhelpful, if you recall.”

“Well I managed to change your mind about _me_ at least,” grins Varric, “so I guess I’ll just have to persuade you to come around to Kirkwall’s many charms too.” He winks. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Cassandra actually blushes slightly at that, but is saved from replying by the arrival of a servant with a tray of tea, sent by Leliana. The ensuing business of pouring drinks, sorting out appropriate sugar rations and divvying up the biscuits means that by the time they are both settled comfortably into chairs any initial awkwardness has pretty much worn off. Though it’s been a very long time since he has been able to talk physically with Cassandra, they have in a way been carrying on a protracted conversation for some time through their letters, and Varric finds himself slipping easily back into it.

“So how did you like the rest of _Free Marches Flower,_ by the way?” he says. “You said in your last letter you had nearly finished it.”

“It was dreadful,” says Cassandra. “I enjoyed it very much. Do you have anything else by that author?”

“Adrian Mountjoy? That’s not his real name you know. He’s actually a dwarf, in fact.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not all dwarves know each other, Seeker.”

“I was more thinking along the lines of all authors knowing each other. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”

“We’ve met a couple of times, yeah. We had an argument over his over-zealous use of adverbs though, so I don’t think I can get you an autograph unless I actually tell him it’s for the Divine.” Varric pauses thoughtfully. “Actually it might be worth it just to see the look on his face.”

Cassandra snorts, a sound which is very un-Divine of her, and something that could never be properly translated into a letter. Varric can’t keep the smile from his face. She’s really _here._

It’s clear neither of them want to break the comfortable atmosphere they find themselves in, so they talk only lightly about the events of the day before going down to dinner. Unlike in Val Royeaux, here in Kirkwall it will cause little comment that the visiting Divine might sit down to dinner with Varric Tethras, who is after all a leading civic figure these days. And an old friend, of course.

The meal is a small private affair; a deliberate contrast with the formal banquet which they must attend tomorrow at the Viscount’s palace with all Kirkwall’s nobility. Hawke’s absence is notable, but Bethany is there, talking animatedly with anyone who will listen about the new college, all shyness forgotten. Merrill and the First Enchanter become engaged in a magical debate of some kind that they try and fail to explain coherently to a worried looking Bran. Leliana appears only halfway through the meal from some mysterious errand of her own, but slips naturally into gossiping with Bethany about Lothering, which she happens to have passed through recently on work for the Divine. Aveline and Cassandra fall into companionable conversation within minutes and Varric is content to simply watch and listen to the others for most of the meal. It’s probably a sign that he’s getting old and boring, but he can think of few things better than sitting down to a quiet dinner with friends.

After dinner he and Cassandra retire to her rooms and talk with Leliana for a while, before the Left Hand makes her tactful excuses and leaves them to each other.

They end up sitting together in the window seat that overlooks the city. It’s quite a view. Night fell hours ago, and in spite of the roaring fire in the room there’s still a slight chill coming through the tiny gaps in the window frame that makes it appropriate – almost _necessary_ – to sit pressed up against each other for warmth, his head resting against her, his arm loosely around her waist and hers draped across his shoulders. Perhaps it’s strange, but Varric doesn’t feel like he did when he saw Cassandra last – as if he were visiting a friend with some terrible illness who could slip from his grasp at any second. In spite of her understandable fatigue at the constant whirl of duties as Divine, there is an odd sense of peace about her now that wasn’t there before. She has grown into the life, he thinks.

Speaking of which...

 “So why _did_ you grow your hair?” he asks, at an appropriate lull in conversation.

“I...am unsure,” says Cassandra, tucking it self-consciously behind one ear with her spare hand. “I suppose at first I was so busy I simply forgot. Then I just let it continue. It was...easier, I think, to see something different about myself when I looked in a mirror. Perhaps a part of me thought if I changed my outward appearance I could just as easily change myself into the person everyone needed me to be.” She fidgets uncomfortably. “I’m sure that seems very foolish.”

“Not at all,” says Varric. “After all, remember what the Iron Lady always says?”

Cassandra smiles. “Appearances are important, whether you want them to be or not.”

“And how is the Right Hand these days?”

“Busy. As are we all.” Cassandra sighs. “I have not seen Vivienne for several months, since she prefers to work away from the Grand Cathedral. She...” – here Cassandra hesitates – “she believes she can better serve the Chantry by working in tandem with the Divine, rather than at her side.”

“You mean she’d rather build up her own power base separate from yours,” says Varric.

“That is another way of putting it, I suppose.” Cassandra sighs again. “I knew who she was when I appointed her. Whatever her motivation, Vivienne has been indispensible. I needed a right hand who understands compromise and diplomacy, who _believes_ but does not let that belief blind her to reality. Who can make connections and appease the nobility but is also a figure of respect and trust to the mages.”

“I’m not questioning your choices,” says Varric.

“You’d be the only one then.”

He takes her free hand in his and squeezes it gently. “Hey, from what I’ve heard you’ve done a damn good job so far,” he says. “Three years in and things are holding together pretty well. No wars, no explosions...even that whole Qunari thing last year went a whole lot better than it could have done.”

“Surprising though it may be to _you_ Varric, wars, explosions and rampaging Qunari aren’t actually the norm,” says Cassandra.

“Anyone you talk to in this city will tell you different,” he replies. “But I do mean it – you’ve done a lot for people, you shouldn’t worry about a few idiots who will pick fault no matter what you do.”

“It is hardly just a few,” says Cassandra. “Even these new colleges...the mages are not happy that they are still required to register here at all, even if it is only so that they can be judged secure enough to return to the outside world. They see them as Circles under another name, even though the Circles are to remain quite separate.” Her voice is resigned; this is clearly a discussion she has been through many times. “And everyone else is terrified that mages will be allowed freely amongst them, even with every measure put in place. The Tranquility issue has put us at odds with—”

She catches herself suddenly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to talk about such things. I’m sure you have enough on your plate already without my adding to it.”

“Well, compared to being head of the entire Chantry, being head of Kirkwall seems like pretty small beer,” says Varric.

“It is no such thing,” says Cassandra, pressing a brief kiss to his forehead. “You have done much for this city, and you have much to be proud of.”

“I hope so.” It’s true that right here and now with Cassandra beside him it’s hard to remember all the various things that were worrying him yesterday. Still...

“Even a year on it doesn’t quite seem real,” he admits. An idea occurs. “Hey, maybe I should do what you did. Look the part, right? So if I grow a beard...”

“Don’t you dare!” Cassandra looks so genuinely horrified that Varric can’t help but burst out laughing, and she joins him a moment later. He suspects there will never be any sound more beautiful to his ears than her laughter.

Curled up on the window seat, looking out over the lights of the city, they talk late into the night. They talk politics and gossip and everything in between. They talk about faith, and war, and old friends and old battles. They talk about the changing world.

They do not talk about love. It is there, he thinks, wound around every word, every brief touch. When they lie together in the small hours of the morning it seems a natural continuation of their conversation, a perfect acceptance of what will always be there between them. There is no more pain for what might have been, only pleasure in what is now.

She stays in the Free Marches only a few weeks, and he sees her for only a few days, moments snatched here and there.

It is enough.


	4. Five Years After

Varric wakes up – not for the first time in his life – with his head lying against a pile of writing on a desk. It actually takes him several minutes before he fuzzily figures out that it isn’t _his_ desk, but rather the one in the room that he has taken at this surprisingly upmarket roadside inn. What was its name again? The Nibbling Nug? The Bucking Bronto? Something alliterative, he thinks.

His memory is terrible these days. He’s getting old, probably.

The light streaming through the window tells him that dawn is long past, and he manages to tidy up the papers on the desk a little, thankful that at least this time he hasn’t knocked over the open bottle of ink onto anything while he slept. Last night is a vague blur, as he dimly recalls being exhausted by the journey but unable to sleep anyway, a state not unfamiliar to him recently. A glance tells him that most of what he’s written for his latest novel is nonsensical and will have to be scrapped, and once he’s safely packed the manuscript away all that’s left is Cassandra’s most recent letter to him that he must have been re-reading again.

If he had been asked to guess what Cassandra’s handwriting would look like, he would have imagined it to be clumsy, all spiky points and ink blots. Brash and forthright like she was, slanted in haste. Instead it was a neat and elegant cursive, and it had taken Varric a while to realise she had probably been taught to write by the best tutors money could buy when she was young, locked up in a schoolroom in a castle somewhere in Nevarra. Learning to write, and read music, and sew tapestry. He could picture her as a small child, scruffy and wild, staring out of the window and dreaming of dragons.

Or had that been him? They had, perhaps, that much in common. Now he’s older and stares out the window dreaming of her instead, wondering if she does the same.

Unbidden, his fingertips trace over the graceful curl of her name at the bottom on the page.

_Cassandra_

Stupid. Sentimental. The sort of thing a character in one of his books would do. He shakes himself out of his drowsiness and heads out of his room to find some breakfast.

It occurs to Varric, as he works his way through a large plate of eggs and toast, that he has spent most of life in love with women he hardly ever sees. Whether that says something about him or about the Maker’s strange sense of humour, he isn’t sure. Most of the time he can persuade himself that it doesn’t matter – he had suffered through long periods of silence during his time with Bianca, but Cassandra is as much a part of his life as the people he talks to every day, more so than some. Her letters are a constant, and not a thing happens in his life or hers that the other does not hear of. He still misses her, _aches_ for her sometimes, to hear her speak, to see her face, but...in her letters are contained her voice, her heart, and the passion that he has always loved. They may not be able to sit down and have a drink together at the end of a long day, but he can always ask for her advice without fear of judgement or disapproval, and she can ask the same of him. He can tell her of his fears, the pressure he feels now that he is Viscount, and know that she of all people understands completely. She can’t stand by his side and glare at all the stuffy nobles who sneer at a casteless dwarf being in charge of their city, but she can rail against them in every line when he tells her of their latest insults. He can’t take her into his arms when she’s hurt by the terrible things she sees as Divine, but he can scribble stories to cheer her up, distract her with tales of Hawke’s escapades, make her laugh hundreds of miles away with some stupid joke. Just the sight of her handwriting is enough to lighten his own mood.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when life is feeling kind, they are allowed to see each other.

It’s five years since the Inquisition’s defeat of Corypheus, and there is going to be a...celebration, for lack of a better term. Only since the Chantry is involved, it’s not exactly what Varric would call a party. There’s going to be a lot of speeches, and a lot of parading through the streets, and even a play, he understands, recounting the story of the Inquisitor. And behind the scenes, a whole lot of meetings, as some of the most important and influential people in Thedas use the event as an excuse to make some moves in the ever ongoing game of politics. As Viscount of Kirkwall Varric isn’t considered particularly powerful, but he’s still been approached by several Fereldan nobles for a ‘brief audience’ while he’s staying in New Haven, probably to try and hash out more lucrative trade deals.

And that’s the other thing that’s been preying on his mind, of course. New Haven. The town built nearly on the same spot as the old village; bigger and busier than ever before. The Temple of Sacred Ashes may be gone but pilgrims still flock to the spot, even more so now that it’s known as the founding place of the Inquisition and spiritual birthplace of the Herald of Andraste herself. The town has become known as both a holy place and something of a remote beauty spot, for some reason. Varric is glad that the roads to the place are much better than they were, but he still wishes the whole thing has taken place in Skyhold instead – he has much better memories of the castle, and it would’ve been nice to see it again.

Still, it’s not the location he’s here for, or the speeches. It’s the people; the Inquisitor herself will be there, as well as Lady Montilyet, the Iron Bull and his Chargers....even Sparkler is coming all the way from Tevinter, in spite of recent events. And of course, the Divine Victoria, formerly Cassandra Pentaghast, one of the founders of the Inquisition. So in spite of the long journey and the promise of embarrassing speeches and endless boring meetings, Varric is in quite a disgustingly good mood about the whole thing.

After breakfast he heads back to his room to gather up his belongings. There’s been no sign of Bran yet, and Varric wonders vaguely if he got bored of waiting and went ahead to sort out the arrangements. Bran is a morning person. The other people he’s been travelling with – head of the Kirkwall Merchant’s Guild, an Ambassador from Starkhaven and several of Aveline’s brawniest guards – are probably still in their rooms. As he’s technically the most important person in their party Varric supposes they’re working to his schedule, but he doesn’t much like the idea of keeping everyone waiting, so he starts to tidy his papers away swiftly. After only a few minutes however, there’s a tentative knock at his door.

“Come in.”

A serving girl enters with a nervous smile. “There’s someone here to see you, my Lord. Waiting downstairs.”

“Someone from outside?” Varric is surprised; anyone who wanted to meet with him would do better to wait until he was ensconced in New Haven for the celebrations. “Who is it?”

“She wouldn’t give a name, my Lord, and I didn’t see her face. She just asked for you.”

Hope stirs in Varric’s chest. If this visitor was a woman then perhaps it wasn’t some pushy noble after all. It could be Leliana. It certainly sounded like her style.

He follows the serving girl downstairs again and gives her a few coins in thanks when she nods him over to the far corner of the inn, where a cloaked and hooded figure is sitting half hidden in the gloom. It occurs to him only as he approaches that this could be a trap of some kind, but it’s already too late, and he likes to think that after all this time he could probably outwit a single potential assassin. Still, he sits down opposite his visitor with a certain amount of trepidation.

“So,” he says. “This is all very cloak and dagger. You’ve got the first part down literally, but I’d appreciate it if we could skip the latter, since this is a new shirt. Viscount Tethras at your service. What can I do for you?”

The figure lowers its hood.

_“Cassandra?”_

She looks pleased and a little abashed at his reaction. “Hello Varric,” she says.

He can only gape. “But I...you...what are you _doing_ here?”

“That’s hardly a fair question, Viscount Tethras.” She is smiling, eyes dancing with humour. “I was under the impression that the Divine was expected at this gathering. I was somewhat involved in the fall of Corypheus, after all.”

“Yeah but...” Varric can’t help but glance around the inn, trying to spot Leliana in a corner somewhere, or perhaps a crowd of priests that he has somehow missed. “Where are all your...your _people?_ You can’t be here alone!”

“Can’t I?” Cassandra raises her eyebrows. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten what I’m capable of. I was a Seeker for many years before I was Divine, Varric. I can handle myself.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. I was more thinking along the lines of people maybe _noticing_ the most important person in Thedas has disappeared and panicking,” says Varric.

“You’re assuming they’d notice in the first place,” says Cassandra. “In truth I have little to do while on this trip except meet people I don’t particularly want to meet. I decided I would take a day off to meet one of the few people I actually _do_.” She looks a little hesitant for the first time. “I know this is rather...unorthodox. But I thought...well, there will be so little time for any of us to talk once we arrive, what with the ceremonies and meetings and schedules to keep, so this may be the only chance we have to see each other without...”

“All our people?” Varric finishes for her. “You’re probably right.”

He reaches out and takes her hand across the table. It’s a small gesture, the briefest of contact, but it’s all Varric can allow himself in a public place like this. Her fingers are warm under his, and he can hardly be blamed for staring into her eyes for a little too long. There’s something oddly appealing about a clandestine meeting like this, and seeing Cassandra in travelling clothes certainly brings back some fond memories. Her hair is still long, now pulled back into a businesslike braid, but otherwise he could kid himself that they were back in the good old days of the Inquisition, stopping at some roadside inn on the way to Maker knows where to seal a rift.

They had _so much_ time together back then, and Varric can’t count the number of times he’s cursed himself for not appreciating it.

“New Haven is not far,” says Cassandra suddenly. “Would you...it would only take perhaps a couple of hours to walk there from here. Perhaps we could walk there together?”

“Just the two of us? On foot? I’m sure Bran would have fifty fits. I can’t even imagine what Leliana would say.”

“Bran and Leliana aren’t here.”

The smile she gives him makes Varric want to forget about New Haven altogether and just drag her up to his room, and to the void with anyone who sees. He masters the impulse and gives her hand a gentle squeeze before standing up.

“I’m with you,” he says. “Just let me have a quick word with the barkeep. He owes me money from last night, so I’ll let him off if he gives us a good head-start before telling my guys we’ve gone.”

“Do I want to know why he owes you money?”

“Probably not. Meet you outside in five minutes?”

Cassandra nods and raises her hood again to walk back through the inn to the door. Varric watches her walk away – always a particular pleasure and one he’s not about the miss when the opportunity presents itself – and then heads over to the bar.

 

* * *

 

An hour later and they are well on the road to New Haven. Well...not exactly the road. There certainly _is_ a road, but they avoid it as best they can while still heading in the right direction, anticipating that the first wagon to pass would surely recognise them, odd a pair as they make. So they take the mountain paths instead, and thankfully even these are not as rugged and ill used as they used to be. Thank the Maker Cassandra has always had a good sense of direction out of doors.

The day itself isn’t a pleasant one; it’s cold and blustery, with occasional bouts of rain so fine it’s really more of a mist. Still, they don’t hurry. It is enough to be together again and tramping through the countryside just as they used to back in the days of the Inquisition. Varric feels only a fleeting sense of guilt for leaving his entourage in the lurch back at the inn, and doesn’t ask what Cassandra had to do to get away by herself even for a few scant hours. He’s sure Leliana must have been in on it. The Left Hand is far too canny to be tricked even if Cassandra would want to, but she does have a bit of a soft spot for romance, Varric has noticed.

The important thing is that they are here, and that no-one else is. Cassandra laughs freely at his jokes, speaks without restraint, and stomping across a damp mountainside looks more comfortable than he has seen her in years. In the few moments that the sun does break weakly through the clouds, she turns her face up and stretches out her arms to bare her skin to its warmth.

It’s the sort of quietly wonderful day that never gets written about in any books, that will never go down in history, but that Varric wouldn’t trade for a mountain of gold.

It doesn’t last, of course.

“We are being followed,” says Cassandra quietly.

“I know,” says Varric. He keeps his face neutral and they continue to stroll along at the same casual pace.

“I count at least two behind us and more in those rocks ahead, I would imagine. A standard ambush.”

“Got any weapons?” says Varric.

“None. I left in something of a rush.”

“I’ve got a couple of daggers. I guess I could spare one for you.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

Varric chuckles. “Well, maybe we can talk our way out of this,” he says. “But just in case...” He reaches down in one swift movement and draws a short dagger from each boot. He hands one to Cassandra and they both stop walking, simply standing there in the middle of the path. After a few seconds, men emerge from the rocks ahead. There are – Varric does a quick count with a sinking feeling in his heart – six of them, plus the two that are still presumably behind them in case they try to run back the way they came. Too many. The men saunter towards the two of them, weapons drawn. All of them are carrying swords, and though their armour is only leather and a few scraps of chainmail it looks more than serviceable. Varric’s heart sinks further.

A tall, dark haired man steps forward with a businesslike air. “Alright, you know how this works. There are eight of us, two of you. Drop the blades, hand over everything you’ve got on you, don’t do anything fucking stupid and you can carry on up that path. If not, y—”

“Fuck me!” gasps the man next to him suddenly. “That’s the fucking Divine!”

The men all turn their gazes to Cassandra, who glares back.

“No it bloody isn’t,” says the dark haired man.

“I’m telling you, it is! Look, she’s got the scar and everything!”

“He’s right,” says one of the other men. “I seen her arrive up in town when I went in a few days back.” He gestures towards Varric with his sword. “And that’s the fucking dwarf they say she whores herself to.”

The dark haired man’s mouth curls into a sneer. “Well isn’t this our lucky day then, lads?” he says. “I wouldn’t have guessed the Divine would be seen out parading around with some dwarf scum, but I suppose in _Orlais_ they do things different. They’d take anything to bed that stands still long enough. Fucking _disgusting_.”

Varric feels Cassandra stiffen beside him, and feels a curl of anger in the pit of his stomach. Not even on his own behalf, but that Cassandra should have to hear something like that – proof that while the world may change, _people_ seldom do.

“We could get a damn good ransom on the Divine,” says one man, his eyes glittering.

“Are you mad?” says the dark haired man. “We’d be hunted down. Nah, best no-one hears about this. Anyway...” He spits contemptuously on the ground, eyes fixed on Cassandra. “This bitch is the reason the fucking mages aren’t locked up any more. Her and the fucking Inquisition. We’re doing the world a _service_ here lads.”

He seems to come to a decision. “Kill ‘em both then, grab what’s on them, and we go.”

There’s some irritable muttering amongst the men, but they move forward all the same, raising their swords. Varric grips a firmer hold on his dagger, unfamiliar in his hand after so long. So much for trying to talk their way out of this. He wishes he had Bianca. More than that, he wishes Cassandra had a sword. And that they were facing half the number of men.

Cassandra’s breathing is steady beside him. He spares her a brief glance and her gaze locks with his.

“Just like old times, right Seeker?” he says.

She flashes him a sudden smile, bright and brilliant as the sun through the clouds, and they both lunge forward.

The bandits are well equipped but badly trained, and as Cassandra and Varric dodge and weave through the group, their advantage in numbers works against them. The battle – if it could be dignified with such a name – is chaos, with shouts of conflicting orders and men hitting each other in their eagerness to attack their targets. It’s started to rain again and the ground is slippery and treacherous, making swings go wide and feet slide from under them. Varric gets in a lucky upward slash with his dagger and leaves one man clutching a sword arm suddenly running with blood. Out the corner of his eye he sees that Cassandra is using her fists as much as she is her own dagger, and he catches her landing a particularly painful looking kick in a place that leaves another bandit curled on the floor groaning.

But they are losing. They are simply too badly outnumbered, and without proper weapons or armour a single slip could be instantly fatal. Varric ends up almost back to back with Cassandra, surrounded by the men; the only thing staving off the moment of defeat is that none of them appear to want to be the first person to attack.

It is ridiculous. After all she has survived, Divine Victoria – the Hero of Orlais, Princess of Nevarra, dragon slayer, war hero and shaper of nations – is going to be killed on some cold wet mountainside by a bunch of badly trained thugs. It isn’t _right._ This isn’t how it happens; he knows in some deep fundamental way that this is _not_ how her story ends. It simply isn’t good enough. Any fear he feels for his own life is overwhelmed by a sudden fury at the world itself for being so...so... _meaningless._

Varric sees the man nearest him tense slightly, obviously preparing to spring, and his own grip on the dagger’s hilt tightens. At the very least he can take out as many of the bastards as possible before—

There is a yell of anger from a dozen unfamiliar throats, and suddenly the world is full of dwarves.

If the fight before was chaos, then this is absolute pandemonium. To say that the bandits are taken off guard by the appearance of a crowd of heavily armoured dwarven warriors is an absurd understatement – half of them are on the ground before the others have even turned from Cassandra and Varric to see their new attackers. Axes and swords whir through the rain, slicing through armour and flesh alike. Heavy dwarven boots send up splatters of mud, shouts of anger and fear are lost in the clash of steel.

In a matter of minutes, there are eight dead bandits slumped on the ground and Varric and Cassandra are surrounded once again, albeit this time at a slightly lower level.

Varric is just about to ask the world in general what in the name of sanity just happened, when one of the dwarves strolls up to them and removes her helmet. Beside him, Cassandra actually drops her dagger in surprise.

“Inquisitor!”

“Not any more, young lady. ‘Etta’ will do just fine.” The old dwarf drops her helmet carelessly and rests her greataxe on the grass with a damp squelching _thud_ , her hands folded neatly on top of the pommel. She grins widely at Cassandra, obviously enjoying her surprise. “If you’re still gonna call me ‘Inquisitor’ then I’ll start referring to you as ‘Your Perfection’ and that’ll just be weird for both of us.”

The other dwarves seem to relax at this exchange, and the group starts to break up, some wincing at minor wounds, others cleaning their weapons as best they can after the messy melee. Their element of surprise seems to have spared them any casualties at all, Varric notes.

“How...what are you _doing_ here?” asks Cassandra, still staring at their former leader.

“I could ask the same of you,” says Etta. “Sounds like the beginning of a joke, doesn’t it? The Divine, the Inquisitor, and the Viscount of Kirkwall all walk into a bar...” She pauses and surveys the gloomy mountainside with a disapproving air. “Although actually that sounds like a damn good idea right about now. I could do with a drink. You two really do bring trouble wherever you go, you know that?”

Varric grins. “Thanks for the save, Grandma.”

“Still sticking to the old nicknames too, my lad? I swear I see all my old comrades after all this time, and not one of you idiots can remember my damn name. Anyway, you might want to be careful with that one, since one of my grandsons _is_ actually right over there.”

She points her thumb over at one of the dwarves who is organising a search of the attacker’s bodies a little way off. Both Varric and Cassandra crane their necks curiously, but the guy mostly just looks like all the other dwarves, with an enormous dark braided beard, heavy armour and a serious expression.

“Straight out of Orzammar,” says Etta, a touch dismissively. “Decent lad though. His mother was furious, but she couldn’t do much – coming to the surface isn’t the social suicide it used to be.” She shrugs. With her heavily scarred face and white hair drawn back into a tight bun, their former Inquisitor is remarkably unchanged since Varric first met her, besides the mechanical left arm that now takes the place of her missing limb. It is an extraordinary piece of work, a last favour from Bianca, and Varric wonders if that knowledge is partly why Cassandra’s eyes linger on it as she surveys the elderly dwarf.

“How did you know where to find us?” she asks.

“I didn’t,” says Etta. “We were just on our way to the temple and had to take a detour because there was a rockslide over the road. Heard fighting in the distance and figured we’d check it out. Shitty day, isn’t it?”

“Would’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t shown up just then,” said Varric.

“Yeah well, you know me. Always in the last place you’d expect. Just be glad I didn’t appear out of the Fade in a flash of green light. It’s been known to happen.”

She regards them thoughtfully for a moment, and Varric can almost see her making the decision not to ask them what the two of them were doing out here alone.

“Since it’s about to start pissing it down by the looks of things, shall we get going?” she says instead. “The town shouldn’t be far by my reckoning. We can get someone there to come for the bodies. Not like the old days where we could just leave ‘em where they fell, eh?” She gives Cassandra a friendly punch on the arm. “Come on then Holy of Holies. Our followers await.”

“Those of us _not_ chosen by the Maker can tag along too right?” says Varric, as the group starts its way again up the sloping mountain path.

“If you can keep up,” says Etta cheerfully. “And if you bring me up to speed on the Carta crackdown in Kirkwall. You know how I love to hear about old friends.”

In spite of the amiable conversation the rest of the walk to New Haven is a little uncomfortable, due to both the company of the other dwarves – who clearly have no idea how to respond to the Divine being in their midst and spend the journey in respectful silence – and the fact that the rain really starts pelting down as they approach. Their new companions don’t suffer so much under their armour, but both Varric and Cassandra are soaked through in minutes and it’s with a great relief that they approach the town.

Although not in exactly the same location as before, the town of New Haven has been deliberately built along the same structure as the old village, lending it a somewhat eerie sense of familiarity even in driving rain rather than snow. Cassandra seems unaffected, presumably because she has been here for several days already – and has visited before if Varric recalls correctly – but he himself finds walking through the outlines of a place he last remembers seeing wreathed in dragon fire seriously disconcerting. Even Etta grows quiet, and the discomfort combined with the rain means the group parts ways hastily with hardly a word. Still, there will be plenty of time for catching up later, hopefully. For now, getting into the warm and dry is more of a priority.

Cassandra leads him in a roundabout route to the back of the large inn where the most important visitors are staying, presumably to avoid being noticed, though there are few enough people out and about in this weather. Only the lights flickering in every window and the churned up ground speaks to the great number of people that must be crammed into the town at the moment.

She produces a key from under her sodden cloak and lets them into the building, right into a large kitchen, deliciously warm and stocked to bursting, by the looks of things. An elf woman looks up from stirring a pot, ready to snap at the intrusion, but drops into a hasty curtsy when she sees who it is.

“Shall I inform Lady Nightingale you have returned, Most Holy?” she asks.

Cassandra nods curtly and the woman hurries out of another door. Varric then has the possibly unique experience of seeing the Divine Victoria shaking her head vigorously like a dog, scattering water droplets everywhere.

“Urgh,” she mutters, undoing her sodden cloak. “I think I preferred this place in the snow.”

“Well at least the rain will make it difficult to burn down again,” says Varric. Cassandra gives him the look of someone who clearly believes some things should not be joked about, but Varric has seen that look many times before and hasn’t let it stand in his way yet. Actually he’s always been rather fond of Cassandra’s wide range of disapproving looks.

He draws up a couple of stools and they both sit down gratefully in front of the fireplace. Cassandra starts to wring out her clothes rather ineffectually while still wearing them, and even pulls the dark braid of her hair forward to try and squeeze the water out of it. She makes a soft noise of disgust as rainwater splatters to the stone floors at her every movement. Watching her, Varric feels a sudden powerful ache of nostalgia.

“I fell in love with you on a day like this, you know,” he says.

Cassandra looks at him, surprised. There are tiny rain droplets on the ends of her eyelashes. “You did?”

“Well, at least I _realised_ it then. I guess I was probably a hopeless case for a long time before I figured it out.” Varric smiles at the memory. “It was in Crestwood, and it was pissing it down. We’d just made it to Caer Bronach before nightfall, and we were trying to dry out in front of the hearth down in the kitchen because that was where the biggest fire was.”

Cassandra nods. “I remember.”

“You were dripping wet – we all were – and you were holding a mug of some drink in your hands that had steam rising from it, and you were laughing at some stupid joke Tiny had cracked, and I was watching you and I just thought....oh _shit._ ”

“That’s not a very romantic sentiment, Varric,” says Cassandra dryly.

“It’s an honest one. I thought you would kill me just for thinking it.”

Cassandra smiles. “That would have been rather hypocritical of me.”

There is a thoughtful silence. Varric can’t bring himself to ask the question, even now when he is as sure of her feelings as he has ever been of anything. But Cassandra answers it herself.

“I realised I was in love with you,” she says quietly, “at the end of the book.”

It’s Varric’s turn to be surprised. “ _Swords and Shields_?” he asks.

“The first one you wrote for me, yes. When the Knight Captain and her lover reconciled at the end, I knew...it hadn’t been a joke, or a trick. You wrote it, the whole thing, for me.” She looks down at her hands, even now a little abashed at such a confession. “No-one had ever done anything like that for me before. And you wrote as if you _knew_ me. As if you knew exactly what I wanted to happen.”

“Well, it’s what I wanted to happen too,” says Varric. He takes her hand gently, laces his fingers with hers. “You know me Seeker, I’m always a sucker for a happy ending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist having a little cameo from Etta :)


	5. Ten Years After

Though she rarely complains, Varric can see that Cassandra’s role as Divine chafes at her sometimes, this second era of her life so different from the first, battles and adventures long behind her.

She is hardly an old woman yet, but she doesn’t move as quickly as she once did, and her impatience at that fact is obvious. Cassandra has always preferred action to talk, and now both her position in the world and her own body are betraying her. As Divine she does nothing but make speeches, arrange negotiations, attend pompous Orlesian events; important work to be sure, but not what she would have chosen. There is little time for martial training, and little need for those skills to be put to use. In a way, peace is its own trial.

Her letters are full of that frustration, but they are longer now too. Writing comes more easily to her – a habit now after all this time. Her body may be slowing with the years, but her mind and temper are as quick as ever, her passion not tamped by time or complacency. She is Divine, and she gives everything she has, day after day, year after year. She is Cassandra, and Varric expects nothing less. For his own part, he finds himself settling into the role of Viscount as he might break in a pair of new boots into a softer, more comfortable fit. He has learnt what work can be passed off to someone else, and what he needs to do himself. He has learnt how much power he really has, and how much he should actually _use._ He has learnt how to live with himself as a leader; how to get people to work together without having to order them, how to make change happen without being a tyrant. Some days it’s like herding rabid nugs, but if Cassandra can shoulder the hopes and prayers of the faithful throughout Thedas, then he can at least handle one city.

They write of vague half-formed plans to see each other every so often, but they both lead such busy lives it is impossible to justify in reality. Varric sees Leliana a few times though, passing through the Free Marches doing Maker-knows-what, and it’s always a pleasure to talk to her, as much for news of Cassandra as it is just to catch up with an old friend. Honest and open though Cassandra is in her letters, there are a _few_ things she doesn’t mention. Leliana is very knowledgeable on the subject of assassination attempts, for example, which causes Varric several sleepless nights until Aveline points out that the fact she _knows_ about them is far preferable to her _not_ knowing about them. In her next letter, Cassandra reminds him that the last Viscount of Kirkwall was beheaded by a Qunari and if he is going to worry about anyone it should be himself.

He has to admit, Aveline’s advice is far more comforting.

When they finally do meet again it is in Val Royeaux once more, at a celebration for the tenth year of Divine Victoria’s ascension. The Divine in question embraces him warmly as he steps out of the coach, earning the indulgent smiles of those around them. It doesn’t surprise Varric somehow; even through her letters he has seen her change subtly over the years, seen that past recklessness grow into a firm self assurance. Cassandra has always worn her heart on her sleeve, but she is no longer ashamed of it.

It is widely known that Divine Victoria and Viscount Tethras are old friends. It is probably widely known that they are something rather more than that, but no-one seems to care anymore. If there is gossip, it is not as barbed as it once was. The world changes slowly...but it _does_ change.

“Did you receive my last message?” asks Cassandra, once Varric’s coach has been unloaded and they are safely ensconced in a formal reception room in the Cathedral.

“Yeah, the bird flew right into the coach window as we were crossing the border,” says Varric. Gave the guard a hell of a fright.”

“Then you know about this evening?” says Cassandra. There is a trace of nervousness in her voice, as if she half expects an argument.

“Sure, although it would’ve been fine to just tell me when I got here,” says Varric. “The message was pretty unexpected in a lot of ways.” He raises his eyebrows. “The day before your whole anniversary thing, and you’re taking me to a party? I’m impressed. And surprised. I thought you hated that sort of thing.”

“I do,” says Cassandra. “But this will be a small gathering and the Comtesse Roche is a friend. It will be...as informal as we are likely to get.”

“And you’d rather spend some time away from the Grand Cathedral right now?” Varric says shrewdly.

“Well...yes,” says Cassandra. She gives a small smile. “And the journey to her estate will take the best part of an hour by carriage. I thought you might travel with me. It will give us some time to speak, in private.” _Which is more than we will get here_ says the look in her eyes.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, your Holiness,” says Varric.

The carriage is that takes them to the estate of Comtesse Roche is comfortable and finely made, and used exclusively for the Divine. Guards accompany them of course, but ride on the roof, out of sight if not out of mind. Small mercies. Cassandra’s hair is cut short again, and already greying around the temples. Varric runs his fingers through it tenderly and she kisses the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. The carriage ride seems to take no time at all.

The estate is scarcely a mile outside the city proper, far enough away for there to be beautiful views of the rolling Orlesian farmland, but close enough that every possible luxury is a mere coach ride away for the servants. A handsome white villa sits in the middle of large ornamental gardens surrounded by high white stone walls. It must have cost a small fortune, but Varric is aware that the Comtesse owns most of the land around Val Royeaux, and probably earns more just sitting around in her fancy house in one day than he does in a month of writing and...Viscounting. It doesn’t seem very fair, but that’s nothing new. Varric just hopes that for Cassandra’s sake he can politely put up with the more obnoxious nobles that are sure to be found at this gathering.

The Comtesse Roche stands at the gate and curtsies low as the two of them step from the carriage and approach. The guards behind them fan out in practised movements, some to circle the estate, others to stand at set points at the entrances. This is clearly a place they know well, and the Comtesse barely spares them a glance. She’s a rather plump woman with grey hair, wearing an elaborate evening gown and what appears to be a genuine smile.

“Welcome, Most Holy,” she says, her voice heavily accented – she is clearly not speaking Orlesian for Varric’s benefit, and although as it happens he understands Orlesian just fine, his opinion of the woman is immediately improved. “It is an honour and a pleasure to have you here tonight,” she says carefully.

“Thank you,” says Cassandra. “I appreciate the invitation, Comtesse. It’s kind of you to think of me.” She nods to Varric. “May I introduce Viscount Tethras of Kirkwall, a dear friend.”

Varric steps forward and kisses the Comtesse’s proffered hand. “Pleased to meet you, my lady,” he says.

“A celebrity in our midst,” smiles Comtesse Roche. “I hope you are prepared to answer a dozen questions my husband has about your books, my lord.”

Varric, who has long since trained himself not to wince at the whole ‘my lord’ thing, chuckles in response. “I’m always prepared for that,” he says. “It’s much better than answering a dozen questions about city planning, believe me.”

The Comtesse laughs lightly. “Then I’ll be sure to direct the conversation as best I can,” she says. “Forgive me Most Holy, Viscount, please do step inside.”

 

* * *

 

It really isn’t a bad party in the end, though a little too formal for Varric’s tastes, presumably due to the presence of the Divine. But the food is good, the company of the Comtesse and her friends is pleasant enough, and the hostess herself is surprisingly decent for one of the richest women in the country.

Of course Varric would rather have Cassandra to himself for every moment they can be together, but he knows enough to be sure that she would have found a way if there was a way to be found. He is in Val Royeaux for a week this time, after all. He can wait. This is as good as they can expect for tonight, it seems, and honestly it could have been a lot worse. Cassandra looks happy and relaxed, and clearly knows most of the people present; he knows from her letters that she has little enough time for herself most days, so it’s reassuring to see that she has friends here, as he does in Kirkwall. Though imagining Hawke and the others meeting the Comtesse and her friends makes him chuckle.

After dinner is served the party breaks up into smaller groups, as the guests chat and play cards and circulate the room. There’s no dancing, for which Varric is profoundly grateful – one of the ladies present tells him with an air of disappointment that it is not the ‘season’ for dances, whatever that means. But he is made to feel welcome, and of course the conversation turns to his books in due time, and he regales a small group of fans with an excerpt off the top of his head from the latest work in progress. They look gratifyingly thrilled to get a sneak peek, and Cassandra watches the conversation with a look of amusement, and something rather like pride. She is, of course, given a place of honour at the dinner table and treated with the utmost respect, but at least she is not obliged to sit in a throne at the head of the room and simply watch the proceedings, as she has described doing countless times at Orlesian events before, nor is she obliged to wear the ceremonial hat. Varric is relieved too to find that the guards stationed around the outside of the estate are apparently considered sufficient, and none follow them inside.

 It’s a long while before they manage to steal a moment for themselves, but when the Comtesse provides an unexpected distraction in the form of a scandalously amusing new word game, Varric takes Cassandra’s arm and steers her out onto the veranda. The doors are open to the night in spite of the early spring chill in the air, and the gardens are lit by torches. It seems an odd choice at this time of year, and no-one else has ventured beyond the veranda itself all evening, but perhaps the Comtesse is so proud of her gardens she would take any opportunity to show them off to others.

At least they have a chance to rest for a moment and enjoy each other’s company as they stroll down the gravel paths together, without the pressure of a dozen curious pairs of eyes on them. The night is clear, scattered with stars and a bright full moon, and cold enough that each breath puffs out before them in soft clouds. Varric can’t help but wonder at how relaxed Cassandra appears, given how busy these past few weeks must have been for her.

“It’s after midnight,” he says, though he can’t really be sure. “Ten years today, Most Holy.”

“Urgh. Do not remind me.”

“I think you’re fighting a losing battle there,” Varric chuckles. “I have it on a fairly reliable source that there might just be some kind of event to mark the occasion.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” says Cassandra. “But I find all this fuss” – she gestures vaguely – “ _unseemly_ , somehow. If we are to celebrate anything it should be real achievements, work completed or progress made. Marking the anniversary of simply taking a throne is something royalty does. The Divine should be different.”

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think this is really about you,” says Varric. “People need an excuse to celebrate once in a while, and you look good on the posters.”

“Thank you Varric, for so neatly summing up my success as Divine.”

“Well, you also look good on the plates, the inn signs, the little knitted dolls...”

Cassandra laughs. “Tell me there are _not_ little knitted dolls of me.”

“I’ve already bought one for Aveline’s little girl. And one for Hawke, of course.”

“Maker save us. I suppose I _did_ want the Divine to be less cut off from the people. I just didn’t think they’d take to it quite so...enthusiastically.”

“Everyone needs a hero, Seeker. And the dolls are cute. Not as cute as the real thing, of course.”

“I have been called many things Varric, but _cute_ has never been one of them.”

“Well strike it off your list then, because I think you’re cute, Most Holy. Especially when you make that disgusted face and your nose wrinkles like that.”

Cassandra makes an exasperated noise, but can’t conceal her smile. Varric takes her hand as they come to a stop underneath a large blossoming tree. Whatever it is, it’s the only thing that isn’t just a skeleton of bare twigs at this time of year, and the white flowers seem to glow in the moonlight.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” says Cassandra. “I know this isn’t exactly your idea of fun.”

Varric almost laughs. “I would have gone with you into the Deep Roads if that was where you were going to be,” he says. “I don’t care where we have to go or what we have to do, Seeker. I’ll take any time with you I can get.”

“I know,” says Cassandra, squeezing his hand gently. “You are very patient with me, my love. I think sometimes I haven’t told you often enough how much that means to me.”

Varric looks up to see her face turned towards the blossoming tree above, hair brushed with silver by the moonlight. Her expression is something he hasn’t the words to describe. In that moment she does look truly divine; almost other-worldly, like a grave and beautiful statue, anchored to this world of flesh and blood only by the touch of his hand.

When she turns back to him she smiles, and the spell is broken in an instant. The woman he loves stands before him, and loves him in return. It’s amazing how strange and wonderful a thing that is, even after all these years.

“Marry me,” he says.

Cassandra stares at him for a moment and then sighs. “Varric...”

“I know you can’t,” he says. “I just...wanted to ask. Would you, if...?”

She leans down and kisses him, slowly and deeply. When they break apart she’s smiling again.

_“Yes,_ ” she says.

Then: “We should go back, it’s getting very late. We both have a great deal to do tomorrow.”

They both head back inside to give their thanks and goodbyes to their hostess. There are still several people who have not yet left, and no-one seems to think it strange that the Divine and the Viscount of Kirkwall should leave together. Comtesse Roche even looks a little misty eyed as she wishes Cassandra many more years as Divine, and Varric many more as Viscount. He doubts Cassandra would openly speak of their relationship even to a trusted friend, but this woman clearly understands what they are to each other. He suddenly regrets not talking to the Comtesse more – it is a sad sign of their constant separation that he has never met many of Cassandra’s friends, nor she his. Of course in their letters to each other there are names that crop up time and again, but still he wishes that—

Well, better not to dwell on it. He wishes a lot of things.

The carriage ride back is quiet; they are both tired, and content simply to be together without need for speech. Cassandra half lies across the seat to rest her head against Varric’s shoulder, their arms around each other. He could fall asleep quite easily like this, he thinks, with the soft reassuring presence of her in his arms, her breath ghosting across his collarbone. If only they could have more moments like this, if only every day could end as this one...but then, it would never be enough. If he spent every second of every day for the rest of his life holding her, it would never be enough.

He gives a soft sigh, and feels Cassandra shift slightly against him.

“Varric,” she says quietly, not raising her head from his shoulder, “do you ever think that I made the wrong choice?”

There’s no question as to what she’s referring to. Varric considers before answering, aware of the fragility of the moment. “Do you?” he says finally.

“I...am unsure.” Cassandra’s voice is soft, pensive. “I do not regret what my life has been, but sometimes I think...I sometimes wish I had been more _selfish_.”

She is voicing a thought that Varric has had a hundred times himself, but it will do no good to repeat it.

“I don’t think you ever could be,” he says, not sure himself if that is meant to be reassuring or not. “It’s not who you are.”

“Perhaps my life would be better if it was,” says Cassandra.

Varric feels an ache of sadness tighten in his chest. “Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps not. Look, I don’t know all the different ways things could have turned out if either of us had done anything differently. But I know that the world is a better place because you’re in it. _My_ world is a better place because you’re in it. And as long as you’re happy with who you are and what you do...then I don’t think the choices that led here could be wrong. You... _are_ happy, aren’t you?”

To his relief, she only pauses briefly before answering. “Yes,” she says. “I suppose I am.”

“Me too,” says Varric. “I think that’s as much as anyone can hope for, in the end.”

Cassandra makes a vague murmur of agreement, and for a long time the only sound in the carriage is the clattering of the wheels and the faint noises of the night outside; the soft, distant calls of night-birds and the rustling of wind in the trees that line the road.

“But I do miss you so terribly, sometimes,” Cassandra whispers.

Coward that he is, Varric holds her tighter and pretends not to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact that no-one but me cares about: The Comtesse Roche is the mother of Elinor Roche, an Inquisition recruit who appears briefly in one of my other fics, 'Bolt from the Blue'


	6. Twenty Five Years After

The years may come and go, empires rise and fall, but as far as Orlais is concerned, Val Royeaux is eternal. It has seen countless Emperors and Empresses, a stream of Divines, suffered wars and rebellion, endured both tragedy and victory with stately intransience.

Now the city is in mourning; a vibrant ostentatious carnival of grief. Black banners hang from every window, bells ring from every Chantry, mourning dress is worn at all the fashionable events. The shops around the Grand Cathedral are doing a very good trade in commemorative plates.

The world mourns Divine Victoria. Only a scant few mourn Cassandra Pentaghast.

Varric arrives in the city alone.

It’s been a long time since he’s travelled like this, with no guards or companions, nothing but his own two feet and the clothes on his back. The carriage that brought him to the city drops him off as close to the Grand Cathedral as it’s possible to get – closer than is perhaps strictly allowed thanks to a hefty tip – and then rattles off at a brisk speed in the face of an irate looking city guard. Either the guard recognises Varric or doesn’t think it’s worth the trouble, because she doesn’t try to stop him from walking away, just watches disapprovingly until he’s out of sight. He moves through the thronged plaza in something of a daze, trying to remember not to bump into people. In Val Royeaux Varric is invisible, unimportant, just another face in the crowd. The way he likes it. It occurs to him that the last time he felt like this was probably the first time he came to the Grand Cathedral, all those years ago on a blistering summer day. The heat is as stifling today as it was then, though the sun is nowhere to be seen – instead the sky is the colour of a bruise, heavy with rain. The thick humid air sticks his shirt to his back with sweat. Thunder rumbles in the far distance, almost unheard over the chatter of the city. It occurs to Varric that he’ll have to find somewhere to stay tonight, and Maker knows that will be difficult in the centre of Val Royeaux at a time like this.

His thoughts have been like this since he heard the news; at times chasing each other round and round in endless circles, at others completely blank for hours at a time. He can’t quite remember how he left Kirkwall or whether he sent word to anyone he was coming. He can’t remember how he managed to convince Bran he must travel alone, but he’s glad he appears to have done so. Varric can’t imagine a worse travelling companion than himself right now.

In no time at all he finds himself standing before the Cathedral along with several hundred other people, most of whom are praying. The steps up to the main doors are littered with flowers. Varric is at a complete loss as to what to do next, but he is only there for a few seconds – or is it a few hours? – before there is a light touch of a hand on his arm and he turns to see a well-dressed messenger give him a respectful nod of greeting.

“If you would follow me please, Viscount Tethras.”

He does so because he can’t think of a good reason not to, and finds himself led through a succession of side buildings and guarded doors with brisk efficiency. The messenger doesn’t say another word to him, but Varric recognises after a while that they are heading into the Grand Cathedral proper after all, through almost the same route that he took on his first visit here. Strange to see it so much better guarded now, especially given that the most important thing to be protected was—

“Varric my dear, whatever are you doing here?”

It’s a familiar voice, and if Varric had been thinking at all he would have realised it’s one that shouldn’t be unexpected. He turns to see the right hand of the Divine, bearing down on him with an expression of reserved sorrow.

He hardly recognises Vivienne, it has been so many years since they last met. She is wearing a long black gown edged with gold lace, a fashionable mourning dress of the kind seen amongst many of the nobility of late. She has grown her hair out since he last saw her; a great black cloud of it, lightly touched by grey, tumbling loose around her shoulders and threaded with shimmering gold filigree. It makes her look softer, less intimidating than she once did, and knowing what he does of Vivienne, it is almost certainly a deliberate choice. Perhaps she believes that in this time of peace a less stern image will help her in becoming the next Divine.

Varric pushes aside his uncharitable thoughts as Vivienne approaches and lays a hand briefly on his shoulder. Whatever her other motivations, Vivienne has always liked and respected Cassandra, and her sympathy now is genuine.

“I am so very sorry,” she says. “This has been a terrible blow for us all, and none more than you, I’m sure.”

He means to reply but no words come out. He just nods.

“We’ll accommodate you as long as you wish to stay, of course,” says Vivienne. “I’m sure you’re aware that the funeral will be held in two days time, and I’m afraid there’s so much to do before then.” She sighs. “Still, I am glad you’re here now, my dear. There are some items the Divine Victoria has left you on her passing, and I’m sure she would have preferred you take them yourself rather than have her possessions pawed through by someone else first.”

“Items?” Varric says, surprised out of his silence. “What...I didn’t expect...”

“She had few possessions of her own, as I’m sure you know,” says Vivienne, and as she gestures for him to follow he does so without thought. “But most of what she had she left to you.”

As they walk through the corridors of the Cathedral, Vivienne nods and smiles at the bows and respectful murmurs of those they pass. As she said, the place does certainly seem to be busy. There is a sense of respectful but undeniable urgency about everyone they see. It’s like a bee hive without a Queen; all the mechanisms churning on as usual, all the workers in their place, but with something vital missing, an absence at the forefront of every mind. Varric tries to ignore their curious stares at him. Outside, thunder booms and the sky bursts like a ripe plum, drenching the baking streets and lashing the Cathedral windows with hot rain. The flowers on the steps will be washed away by tomorrow, Varric thinks, choking the city’s gutters with blossom.

Vivienne leads him to a small but comfortable study – her own, he assumes, given the bookcases of magical texts and impeccably upholstered armchairs – and removes a small wooden chest from a locked cabinet.

“I do apologise for the lack of ceremony,” she says, placing it carefully on the mahogany desk before him. “By all rights there should be a reading of her will, but the Divine’s circumstances are...complicated, to say the least. Officially she is allowed no personal possessions, though I hardly need say that rule has _never_ been observed. Still, it means her legacies must be of the informal kind, and I felt it best to see that they are carried out personally.”

“Thank you,” says Varric, more as an automatic response than anything. He can’t tear his gaze away from the chest. Out the corner of his eye he sees Vivienne giving him a sympathetic look.

“I’ll be just outside, my dear,” she says, and moves away in a soft rustle of silk.

The chest is latched but not locked, the sort of thing one might keep under a bed for storage. Opening it, Varric half expects a bundle of letters, but perhaps she considered them too compromising to keep, as there is only one, laid on top of a few other items. He picks it up and unfolds it, noting that the deep creases in the paper show this action has been performed many times before. Scanning the first few lines, he recognises his own handwriting at once:

_My dearest Cassandra-_

_If those three words are weird to read, then believe me when I say they were even weirder to write. After spending so long not even letting myself think about you in that way, a part of me is still horrified that I would put it into words at all. It kind of goes against the grain for me to be so honest, as I’m sure you can imagine, and even so I find I wouldn’t change it for anything. So I hope you’ll forgive me when I write it again just for the novelty of it – my dearest Cassandra._

_I don’t know how to write a letter...scratch that, I write letters all the time. But I don’t know how to write a letter to you. I keep thinking that this is all some—_

Varric doesn’t bother to read any more because he can practically recite it by heart anyway, remembering how long he agonised over every word when he wrote it. How to seem sincere, but not too solemn. How to reassure her of his feelings without laying his heart bare. It is the first letter he ever sent to her, when they were only going to be apart for a scant few weeks, instead of the long years he has become used to. When what they had was new and tentative and frightening. The first letter of hundreds...probably more, actually. Somehow he isn’t surprised that she kept it.

He places it back in the chest and closes it, unable to bring himself to look at what else she has left him just yet. Instead he makes his way back to Vivienne, who is waiting a tactful way off in the corridor outside, speaking in low tones with a priest. She looks up questioningly as he approaches.

“I’d like to see her.” His voice does not break, but still it sounds very much like begging. “Please.”

There is barely a moment of hesitation. “Of course my dear.”

A few gestures and some more hushed conversation later, and Varric is being led down a hallway by one of the ubiquitous priests, away from Cassandra’s chambers. Vivienne recedes into the distance, and it occurs to him that he should have said more to her, arranged some further meeting or offered some kind of official support as Viscount of Kirkwall. But the truth is that he feels as lost here in the Grand Cathedral as he ever did, passed from person to person, terribly small and unimportant in a vast city he will never truly understand. He knows this is where he needs to be right now, but the sense of displacement, the helplessness is overwhelming. The anchor that has held him for so long is gone, and he can’t help but drift...

“They say it was her heart.”

The voice startles him a little – the women who has been walking with him is the one who speaks. Her eyes are red rimmed, and it takes Varric a moment to realise he has seen her before, a long time ago. Here in the Grand Cathedral, in fact. Mother Felicity, or was it Mother Anna? He tries to remember because then he doesn’t have to hear what she’s saying.

“They say it would have been quick,” she continues, her voice slightly raw. “There...there wouldn’t have been much pain. She may not even have woken up.”

Varric doesn’t reply. They have reached a door, flanked by two sombre guards in respectful black. There are flowers piled around it. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what lies beyond.

There’s a quiet choking noise beside him, and he turns to see that the woman with him is crying.

“I...I’m so sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes frantically on the sleeve of her robe. “I just...she always seemed so...none of us expected the Maker to take her from us so _soon_.” She looks imploringly at Varric, as if he has any kind of solace for her. “It’s not fair,” she whispers miserably.

Varric puts a comforting hand on her arm for a brief moment. “Life never is,” he says, and he’s surprised at how steady his own voice is. He walks forward and one guard opens the door, the other bowing slightly as he passes. The Mother stays standing outside, and the last thing Varric hears is her sniffling quietly before the door closes behind him.

The room is lit by hundreds of pure white candles, but the air inside is still cold. That would probably be ice magic, he thinks, used to preserve the—

She is in the centre of the room.

He walks up to her in a kind of trance, footsteps echoing loudly on the flagstones, and stands at her side once more, where he belongs.

It is not as difficult as he thought it would be, and looking at her pale, still face, he wonders why this was so important to him. What lies before him now is meaningless, an empty shell that has so little to do with her, with him, with anything important. It is the body of Divine Victoria, a holy relic that shares the face of the woman he loved. Perhaps her ashes will be kept, as Andraste’s were, for future generations to revere.

His grief seems very far away from this cold portrait of serenity, clad in white and surrounded by the sweet, sickening scent of flowers. He remembers the fire in Cassandra’s eyes, the way she smelt of sweat and wood-smoke after camping for days in the wilderness, the taste of wine on her tongue when they kissed for the first time. He remembers how she swore the air blue when a lucky blow from a red templar knocked her shoulder out of its socket and Iron Bull had to shove it back in. He remembers the look on her face when he handed over the first book he ever wrote for her, a lifetime ago in the chilly courtyard at Skyhold, and he remembers the letter she sent him just under a month ago, blotted and scrawled in its haste, chastising him for ending his latest book on yet another cliffhanger and begging to know what happened next.

She will never find out, now.

It dawns on Varric that tears are running down his face, and he decides to allow himself that weakness for a few minutes, to feel just a small part of the appalling grief that would swallow him whole if he let it. It’s too great a thing to handle right now, not while there is so much to do. It will hit him later, he knows, because he’s buried many loved ones in his time. Later, he will hardly be able to stand it.

But because he is himself, after the funeral he will get drunk in the tavern with Iron Bull and his Chargers, and he will tell tales of the woman he once knew until his voice runs dry. And then the next day he will return to Kirkwall and begin work on the next chapter of _Swords and Shields_ , because when the Divine asks you to do something, you damn well get it done.

He leaves her with a smile, and a promise.

“I’ll see you again soon, Seeker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh I made myself sad
> 
> Note: Technically the 'one time he didn't' in this fic is actually the very *first* chapter, in which Cassandra is not yet Divine. In every other chapter Varric meets Divine Victoria.


End file.
